


Parallax

by bittenfeld



Category: Knight Rider (1982)
Genre: Brutality, Dark, F/M, Kidnapping, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape, Revenge, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and KITT are driving to Reno on an assignment for Devon, a very calm boring assignment.  However, while passing through the Mojave Desert, an unexpected detour takes them off their route – a detour that takes Michael to Hell…</p><p>New - Chapter 6:<br/>Bonnie.  She amused him, she aroused him.  Garth thought about her often, when he wasn’t hip-deep in Corporation business.  She was certainly different from Adrianne.  Adrianne used Michael’s similarity to taunt Garth; Bonnie was curious and slightly confused by the resemblance.  She obviously hated him, but unlike Devon’s keen eight-year hatred, she didn’t fully understand the conflict.</p><p>He’d have the girl, goddamn he’d have the girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’d been 23 years old when “Rocky’s Theme: Gonna Fly Now” first hit the charts way back when.  Yeah, that had been a very good year, too.  Very good.  He’d had a lot of fun back then.  A brand-new rookie playing macho cop, and how he’d enjoyed himself.  He even remembered the first speeding ticket he ever wrote: a leggy blonde college co-ed had promised to show him everything she’d learned in her Inter-Personal Relationships class, if he’d just be willing to play a little magic with the citation.  Unfortunately he never did find out about her interpersonal skills, because at that very moment his lovable old training sergeant, Sgt. Chuck Bullox (and how that name fit!) had decided to stick his nose into things and conclude the matter quickly.  Ah well, it had left him with something to consider wistfully in later years on slow easy pleasant days.

Like today.

The song, still heard on the radio every now and then, brought back a lot of good feelings.  Feelings from nearly a decade ago… before The Accident, before the abrupt career change, before the beginning of a very unique relationship with a very unique entity named KITT.

“Why do you listen to that trash?” KITT intoned, in that remarkably human-like voice of his, as the two of them cruised Highway 395 through California’s summer-beaten Mojave desert.

A twinkle warmed Michael Knight’s pale eyes.  “Them’s the good ol’ days, my boy.”  The familiar repartee over musical tastes occurred at least once a week, as KITT considered anything written past 1949 ‘trash’.  Usually KITT saved his most contemptuous comments for Michael’s favorite tape, “The Greatest Hits of the Beach Boys”.  Every time Michael played that cassette, he was automatically guaranteed a ten-minute dissertation on the declining merit of today’s popular music.  Michael played it whenever he felt like irking his stuffy companion.

“Yeah, well, remember,” Michael commented, “you told me that ‘Little Red Corvette’ was your favorite song of 1983.  What’s the matter – are you sinking to my level, heaven forbid?”

“I didn’t say it was good,” KITT corrected him.  “I merely stated that the subject matter was of far more relevant interest than bikinis and surfing.  Although I suppose you could say it reminds _me_ of the ‘good old days’.”

“1983 _is_ the good ol’ days to you, pal,” Michael smirked, “– and you don’t really think that that song is just talking about a car do you?”

Sixty seconds of KITT's silence reproved Michael.  He always felt like an ogre whenever KITT shut him out for prodding KITT's programmed self-pride.

“Oh, all right,” Michael conceded, “you win.  All modern music is trash.  Now, how would you like to spend the rest of the trip listening to ‘The Greatest Hits of the Beach Boys’?”

“Don’t torment me, Michael.  Anything but that.”

Michael chuckled.  “You just don’t know quality when you hear it!”

“Look who’s talking.”

A car with musical opinions never ceased to delight Michael.  And KITT was indeed a car – at least on the outside.  Modeled after the Pontiac Trans-Am, the sleek black shell housed state-of-the-art surveillance and analysis equipment and the controlling computer brain: Knight Industries’ most ambitious creation, the 2000 chip.  To protect the equipment and the driver, the Trans-Am body and chassis had been modified and re-designed virtually indestructible; impervious not only to normal road hazards such as glass, nails, and rocks, but also to knives, bullets, crowbars, caustic chemicals, and just about everything short of a Titan missile.  No, vandals wouldn’t have any fun at all with this vehicle.

And the dashboard looked as though it belonged in  some futuristic Flash Gordon spaceship.  Michael didn’t understand most of KITT's electronic innards: microchips, solid-state circuitry, and other state-of-the-art technology that surpassed Michael’s technical know-how by light-years.  All he knew – and needed to know – was that KITT was a marvelous machine, programmed to guard his safety and assist in his criminal investigations.  The fantastically real ‘human’ personality facilitated interchange between man and machine (notwithstanding KITT's condescending opinion of the relative worth of each…) and provided Michael with a constant companion.  KITT was the ultimate in customized vehicles: he was customized to Michael’s individual characteristics alone.  He was Michael’s own personal toy – all $2,500,000 dollars’-worth.  So far, their relationship had lasted for two years; and by now Michael considered KITT his ‘best buddy’, and the computer assured him that the feeling was mutual.  Michael wasn’t the least bit ashamed to admit he carried on conversations with the car – besides KITT was a far more interesting conversationalist than most people.

Except when it came to the subject of musical tastes.  For the past two years, Michael had spent a great deal of time trying to impart to KITT a sense of respect for 1960’s surf-and-bikini music, but so far, all of his work had been for naught.  Sure, he could have had KITT reprogrammed, but then KITT wouldn’t be KITT anymore, and besides how would you like to be lobotomized just because somebody disagreed with your musical preferences?

Right now Michael was really boogieing to the Pointer Sisters’ new Top-Ten hit “Neutron Dance”, tapping his foot, wiggling in his seat, lip-syncing to the lyrics, and not paying the slightest attention to his driving.  Three-hundred miles of asphalt, sagebrush, and yucca bored Michael; besides, since KITT's accident-avoidance mechanisms were automatic, Michael’s attention to driving was virtually unnecessary anyway.

However, KITT was of another mind this afternoon.  “Will you please stop squirming in your seat like you’re sitting in a nest of fire-ants, and at least pretend to watch the road, Michael?”

Michael made a face.  “You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t have a body to boogie with!” and blithely continued his pelvic gyrations.

“No,” KITT disagreed in that supercilious tone of voice of his, “I’m just afraid that if the police see you now, they might mistake you for a raving lunatic and lock you up – of course, to enjoy that so-called music of yours, one would have to be at least slightly unbalanced.”

“Same to you, buddy.”  Michael pouted a nastier moue than before.  “Yeah, and if they took me away, then you’d just be towed off to some junkyard and left to rust – how’d you like that, fella?”

If a computer could shudder, KITT did just then.  “Don’t even joke about that, Michael.  What a nightmarish fate for any piece of self-respecting precision machinery.”

Michael grinned.  He was feeling good today.

An assignment awaited them in Reno.  This evening Michael had a supper appointment with a Sir Jeremy Blackwell of Cornwall, England.  Evidently the man was an ex-federal agent, an old Academy friend of Devon’s from his Scotland Yard days back during the War.  At least thirty-eight years had passed since Devon had last seen him; how he had since learned of Devon’s association with the Knight Foundation for Law and Government, and what request he had of the Foundation remained a mystery.  A brief urgent phone call to Devon late last night: the man needed immediate assistance; and no, he couldn’t enlarge on the details, but would Devon please send a trusted agent of the Foundation to meet him in Reno on Monday evening, 8:00 PM sharp, at the Outpost Truck Stop Café on Highway 395?  Devon agreed; so at 10:00 AM Monday morning, KITT and Michael departed on the long drive from Los Angeles to Reno.

Michael actually rather enjoyed the idea of a long uninterrupted drive.  It was a nice respite from the city, a chance for a few hours’ relaxation.  He wished they had time for a real vacation: in the past sixteen months, he’d been lucky to get two days off on two separate occasions.  And although Devon kept urging Michael to “slow down – you’re turning into a workaholic,” still he managed to find ways to use up most of Michael’s time.  Well, after this investigation, Michael would simply announce that he and KITT were going on a leave of absence for a full two weeks, Destination Unknown.  And Devon wouldn’t even have a chance to protest before KITT's dust filled the air.

Thank god for KITT's air-conditioning which kept the August desert heat at bay.  That made the whole ride enjoyable.  In face, it might even be nice to take KITT desert-camping on their leave of absence: explore sandy canyons by day, sleep under the stars at night; and Michael commented as much to the automobile.

But KITT declined after very little consideration of the suggestion.  “Sorry, Michael, but getting sand in my tire treads is definitely not my idea of a fun vacation.”

“Ooh,” Michael mocked a frown, “we sure are grouchy today!  What’d you do, get up on the wrong side of the garage this morning? ha ha ha!”

“Very funny, Michael.  As a matter of fact, I do feel a little out of tune today.  I don’t believe Bonnie quite synchronized my laser-pulse modules properly when she realigned my circuits last week.”

“Well, we certainly don’t want our laser-pulse modules out of synch now, do we?” Michael agreed, trying to sound as technically knowledgeable as possible.

“You’re dense, Michael,” was all KITT had to say.

Michael laughed.

Noontime had come and gone, and they hadn't stopped yet for lunch.  Michael's stomach had been complaining for the last half-hour.  Well, the little town of Lone Pine was coming up within twenty minutes – they’d pull off there so he could eat and stretch his legs.

Meanwhile, to take his mind off his grumbling belly, Michael initiated a discourse on his favorite topic: “Hey, did you see that little gal at the truck-stop this morning climbing out of the coach of that 26-wheeler?  Man, I didn’t know they came that size!”

“The girl or the truck?”

“The truck, dummy, the truck.”

“You must learn to be specific, Michel.”

“Yeah, well, being specific, did you see that pair of legs?  Man, I never knew any truck drivers with legs like that either – mm!”

“I must admit,” KITT commented, “I’ve never understood humans’ preoccupation with their legs.  For instance, those two young ladies last Friday discussing your physical attributes.”

Michael’s interest perked up instantly.  “Oh yeah?  What two young ladies?”

“We were parked at the corner of Green and Washington, and as you walked away down the sidewalk, I overheard two young ladies across the intersection whispering excitedly about your ‘long sexy legs and tight little – “

“Yes, well,” Michael hurriedly interrupted, caught between enjoyment and embarrassment.

“What’s the matter, Michael?  I thought you liked to discuss your physical attributes.  I’ve overheard you with Bonnie…”

“With Bonnie, yes.  With a car… well, no.”

“Anyway,” KITT continued, “certainly cars don’t discuss ‘legs’ when considering another car’s attractiveness.”

“I didn’t even realize cars considered each other attractive,” Michael puzzled.  “Uh, this may be a dumb question, but just what does one car see in another?”

“You’re right, Michael, that was a dumb question.”

“Very funny, KITT.”

A mileage sign flashed by: 8 miles to Lone Pine.  Michael could already envision the triple cheeseburger he was going to order, plus a nice cold Coors to wash it down.

Just beyond the sign, an intersecting dirt road forked off to the right.  But as Michael steered along the curve of the highway, KITT suddenly turned off onto the dirt road instead.

“Hey!” Michael reacted with a start.  Automatically he hit the brakes, but the car did not respond.  Michael glanced at the drive-control panel: a tiny red LED indicated that the vehicle was on automatic drive-control, rather than on manual.  That was odd: Michael would have sworn he’d been on manual drive all this time.

He pressed the control switch but the red light remained lit.  “KITT, you’re on automatic,” Michael announced.

“Yes, I know,” the car responded calmly.  “You’ve been so preoccupied with other thoughts, that I decided it was safer for me to take over the driving.  Anyway, as I was saying,” KITT continued blandly, “I could no more explain automobile attractiveness to you than you can explain your surf-and-bikini music to me.”

Michael answered, distracted.  “I thought we finished that subject a half-hour ago.  KITT…”  Repeatedly he thumbed the drive-control button, but nothing happened.  “KITT, I can’t get the switch to go to manual.  Would you please do it for me?”

Hesitation.  Then: “I can’t, Michael.  I’m sorry.”

“Well, then, I hate to tell you this, KITT, ol’ buddy, but I think you’ve got a bug in your circuits.  When Bonnie checks your laser-pulse whatevers, be sure to have her check out the drive-control system too.  Anyway,” he continued, “the point is, you took a wrong turn back there at the fork, so would you please turn around and go back to the highway?  I want to stop in Lone Pine for lunch.”

KITT didn’t respond.  It continued at a moderate pace along the dirt road toward the eastern ridge of sagebrush-dotted hills.

“C’mon, KITT, turn around, we’ve got work to do.  We’ve gotta be in Reno in a few hours…  Look, I’d like to take a vacation too, but we’ve got to finish this assignment first.  KITT…”

No response.  By now they’d lost sight of the highway.  Michael didn’t really like the idea of this unanticipated detour.  He didn’t like the idea of KITT usurping control either.

“KITT, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Well, turn around, go back to the main road.”

“No, Michael.”

“No, Michael?!” Michael echoed in sudden shock.  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means my programming has been changed.  I am no longer taking you to Reno.”

“What?!  What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been re-programmed to drive you to a certain set of coördinates east of Lone Pine.”

Irritation blended with uneasiness.  “KITT, you’ve been programmed to only obey me.  Or Devon.”  And with that thought came a flash of enlightenment.  “Oh, I get it.  Devon’s playing a practical joke on me, isn’t he?  This whole ‘assignment’ in Reno is just a game, isn’t it?  I wonder why.  Because it’s my birthday next week, is that it?  I think maybe I oughtta have a word with good ol’ Devon, see what he thinks he’s up to.”  Michael switched on the video transceiver.

The three-inch CRT on KITT's dash remained black.

“Uh, is this part of the joke too?” Michael inquired, more politely than he felt just then.

“It’s not a joke, Michael,” KITT announced.  “And Devon did not program me.”

“Then Bonnie?”

“Neither Bonnie nor Devon is involved in this.”

Michael’s gut tightened.  That didn’t make any sense at all.  Devon and Bonnie not involved – hell, who else could it be?

“Uh, who did program you, KITT?”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information to you, Michael.”

Trickles of fear spread out from his solar plexus.  “What’s going on?  You’re really not kidding, are you?”

“No, Michael.”

Adrenalin flooded Michael’s nerves.  Hell, this wasn’t supposed to happen.  This wasn’t supposed to happen at all.  He’d better _not_ lose control of KITT.

“KITT,” he ordered firmly, “unlock the manual and turn control back over to me.”

“No, Michael.”

 _Damn.  What the hell was happening?_   Could some electronic component have overheated in one of KITT's myriad circuits?  Was it possible that an outsider found a way to hack into the car’s programming?  Michael had always assumed that was impossible, that KITT was equipped with some sort of bug detector which would trigger an alarm at the Foundation to warn of any tampering.

But dammit, something had definitely gone wrong.  One simple demanding thought hammered in Michael’s brain: _what the hell are you going to do now?  All right,_ the answer came, _first think logically.  Computers respond only to logic, not to human emotions.  Binary sequences – that’s all._

“KITT,” Michael inquired with slow deliberateness, “tell me how I can reprogram you back the way you were.  What do I have to do to regain control of you?”

“You can’t, Michael.  I have been programmed to override all input from the Foundation and you, and deliver you to a certain set of coördinates east of Lone Pine.”

“What set of coördinates, KITT?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to go there?”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

Sorry.  Now, there was a concept that couldn’t be reduced to binary.  To KITT it was an empty phrase, programmed into him only to mimic humanness.

“KITT, are you telling me that I’m a prisoner here?”

“ ‘Prisoner’ is an emotionally charged word to human beings.”

“You’re damn right it is.”  Again, out of desperation, Michael tried the steering wheel, the brake, but all manual controls were definitely disengaged.  No doubt about that.   _Don’t panic_ , the internal voice urged. _There is an answer here somewhere.  But where,_ Michael demanded, _where?_

Damn, there just wasn’t enough to go on.  How much of KITT's programming had been altered?  How could Michael notify Knight Foundation of the breakdown?  And the most serious question of all: how safe was Michael now?

A sudden claustrophobic desire to get away and just leave KITT out here in the middle of nowhere washed over Michael.  The Foundation would be madder than hell if Michael lost – or worse, deliberately deserted – their priceless toy.  But right now, Michael couldn’t say he really gave a damn what they thought.  This was beginning to sound all too much like some B-grade science-fiction horror film, and Michael suddenly had no desire to stick around for the ending.

“All right, KITT, enough is enough,” he demanded.  “Stop right now and let me out.  I’ll walk back to the highway, and you can finish this wild-goose chase all by yourself.”

Nothing.

Panic squeezed his chest.  “Dammit, KITT, do as I say!”

“Don’t raise your voice, Michael.”

“Well, why don’t you answer me?”

“Because that was an illogical request, not worthy of a reply.  Number one, I have already told you that I have been programmed to deliver you to a certain set of coördinates.  And number two, you’d never be able to find your way back to the highway now, even if I did let you go.”

That sure in hell was true.  KITT had left the dirt road some miles back and was now travelling cross-country.  Michael didn’t have the damnedest idea where they were anymore.  Rock, sand, sagebrush, and sun in every direction.  And nothing else.

Michel slumped in his seat, rubbed a hand over his eyes.  This was ridiculous.  This couldn’t really be happening.  He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

“KITT,” he demanded wearily, “talk to me.”

“Certainly, what would you like to talk about?  Girls?  The Beach Boys?”

“No.  I’d like to talk about who programmed you, and why you’re disobeying me, and what the hell are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”

That was getting to be an irritating response.  “KITT, I don’t like the way you’re acting.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Michael.”

“Look, are you going to do anything I ask anymore?”

“Not if it contradicts my present programming.  I’m sorry if that upsets you, Michael.  I truly am.”

“Thanks a lot.  That means a lot to me.  You don’t even know the meaning of ‘sorry’.”

“Of course I do,” the computer insisted.  “ ‘Sorry’ comes from the Anglo-Saxon word root ‘sarig’ which…”

“Shut up, KITT.”

Another half-hour passed before KITT finally pulled to a halt.  The low throaty hum of the finely tuned engine ceased.  Dead silence.  An empty expanse of sage and sand surrounded them.  To Michael it all looked just as barren as all the previous fifty miles of terrain they’d just passed through.

“Why are we stopping here?” he demanded.

“This is where I was programmed to bring you.”

“All right then.  Now what?”

“We wait for further directions.”

“Well, I’m gonna check around and see what out here. You can wait if you want.”  He jerked up the door-lock, reached for the door handle.

The lock snapped shut again.

“Damn you, KITT!” Michel yelled.  For at least thirty seconds he fought the lock vigorously, before surrendering to the obvious futility.

Glumly he surveyed the landscape.  No sign of human assistance anywhere.  No doubt about it: he was in one hell of a mess.  _Great.  Just hell-fire great!_   Trapped in a car in the middle of god-knows here, with no one to miss him for hours.  A prisoner in his own car.

“Well, KITT,” Michael commented very matter-of-factly, “It looks like this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”

“Friendship is based on human needs and emotions,” KITT announced just as matter-of-factly.  “And as you should already know, neither has anything to do with electronic circuitry and microchip components.”

Michael had to agree.  “Oh, you are indeed right about that, good buddy.  Thanks for reminding me.  Stupid human that I am, I was actually beginning to attribute human feeling to you.  I really believed you ‘n’ me, we had something between us.  Damn stupid human .”

“Whatever we might have had between us before, Michael, is no longer goal-effective.”

Michael exploded.  “Then dammit, what do you consider goal-effective? kidnapping me and leaving me out in the middle of nowhere?  Is that all our friendship meant to you, goddamn machine?”

“Calm down, Michael.  Swearing at me won’t do anything but raise your blood-pressure.”

“I don’t give a damn about my blood-pressure!  I just want you to turn around right now and go back to the highway!”

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, Michael.”

“Damn you,” Michael grunted under his breath.

* * * * *  
  
_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New - Chapter 2: Michael Knight is in Hell – and Bonnie comes face-to-face with the Devil…

Knight Foundation first discovered the problem Monday evening.  As Bonnie shut down the accessory systems for the night, she also ran the normal check of KITT's transceiver.  The feedback registered blank.  That was odd.  KITT was either not receiving or unable to transmit.  Or he was completely shut down, and that didn’t make any sense.

If there had been a transmission breakdown, why hadn’t Michael phoned them?  And Michael couldn’t have deliberately shut KITT off, because only the Foundation in-house terminal had that capability, and certainly neither she nor Devon had accessed that program today.

A run through the back-up tapes revealed that the shut-down had occurred at 12:07 that after­noon.  No alarm had registered because her access code had been used.  She knew she hadn’t run it accidentally, and Devon had no reason to either, and certainly not to use her access code.

The next surprise came when she tried to re-activate KITT long-distance, only to discover that the entire in-house system had been locked out.  That suggested only two possibilities: either the sys­tem had incurred a major breakdown, or an outside hacker had somehow gained control and changed the access codes.

All Monday night long she and Devon shared turns between the main terminal, analyzing the tape in minute detail and attempting every creative method they could think of to regain access, and the telephone, expecting Michael to call any minute with a simple explanation like KITT had blown a motherboard and would someone please come pick them up and tow them home?

But Michael never called.

By Tuesday afternoon, they had called every police department between LA and Reno, every highway patrol station, every hospital, every coroner’s office.

Nothing.  Not a single lead, not a single contact.

They re-worked programs, trouble-shot the entire system, spelling each other for short naps, then hit the phone again, then back to the computer one more time.

Then finally, early Thursday morning, just before six AM, the sound of KITT's engine roaring up the driveway in front roused both of them out of restless twilight naps.  Devon and Bonnie rushed out, half-elated, half-dreading what they would find.

KITT sat parked on the large circular driveway, dusty and road-grime-spattered, but otherwise unblemished.

There was no Michael.

KITT did not respond to their desperate questions.

The initial cursory exam revealed no damage to KITT's exterior beyond the patina of grit and road-tar gathered from eight-hundred miles of desert driving, and no obvious evidence pertaining to Michael.

On the second exam, the detailed exam, they found all the hardware to be intact.  They at­tempted fingerprints lifts on both the interior and exterior, but ended up with nothing, due to smudg­ing and simple weathering.

But then, on the vehicle’s front end, mingled with the caked dirt and grease, they uncovered the first human evidence: dried blood-spatter across the whole grille and front fenders, bits of flesh stuck to the grille and undercarriage, and some material fibers pinched in cracks.

A detailed analysis of the blood matched it extremely close to Michael’s hematological pro­file, with a population-occurrence rate of seven individuals per 12 million.

Devon exploded.  He raged at Bonnie, demanded to know why she hadn’t done her job pro­perly and programmed more security into the vehicle to keep such a disaster from occurring.

Bonnie didn’t answer him.  She just marched out.

Devon searched the house for a bottle of whiskey.  Normally he didn’t drink heavily – and particularly not at this time of day – but today seemed like a good time to start.  He finally found a bottle in the pantry, then strode upstairs to his private study and slammed the door behind himself.  
* * * * *

When Bonnie returned home (she’d spent two hours parked on an old fire road back in the hills, vividly recalling countless memories of Michael through a deluge of tears), she went right to the garage to begin analyzing KITT.  She didn’t even stop by the house first to see Devon.  His outburst still infuriated her; although, granted, they’d both begun snapping at each other earlier after two days of continual frustration and no sleep.

Of course they really knew that KITT was not invincible, yet they couldn’t help but feel a twinge of betrayal that the machine had failed to protect Michael a hundred percent – or worse, might have actually caused his death.

From the time KITT had parked itself on the driveway, it had shown no signs of life.  It was no more conscious than a regular car.  Still, they had to work around it, they had to take it apart to find out why it had killed Michael, _if_ it had killed Michael; so to protect herself, Bonnie first disen­gaged the drive shaft from the transmission.

She spent all morning trouble-shooting the central processing unit, KITT's primary brain.  There was no damage, no vandalism to the hardware.  Now, if they could only gain access to KITT's programs.  She prayed they’d find the memory intact.  So far, nothing.  Although the lexan body and chassis were undamaged, the software and memory were still locked away.

At least she’d been able to check the transmitter and voice synthesis unit and found them operational.  But that still wasn’t the same as actually talking to KITT.

Now she sat at the terminal again to attempt access one more time.  She’d re-hooked the CPU inside of KITT, making sure all of the connections were tight and clean of dust and grit.  A lot of it was tedious labor, but at least it forced her mind to keep busy; otherwise she’d totally disintegrate in a wash of tears.

It seemed more and more apparent that the problem was not a systems-breakdown, but rather the illegal penetration of a foreign operator. Someone had breached KITT's alarms, violated its secu­rity, and gained access to its core programming, over-riding its primary orders to respond only to Devon, Bonnie, and Michael.  To do that, the hacker had to be someone who had intimate knowledge of KITT's blueprints and software.  It just didn’t seem to be a simple hardware failure.  Someone inti­mately familiar with the Foundation’s whole system.  But who?  And why, why?  How possible was that?  Was it just some lucky amateur high-school hacker or was it a sophisticated terrorist plot against the Foundation to breach its security and murder one of its operatives?  The instrument panels before her wavered in a blur of tears.

Murder Michael.

But who the hell would want to do something like that, something so cruel, so brutal?  God, why didn’t they have more useable information?  They needed more data, they needed more answers!

As a last resort, she punched in her access code one more time.  Maybe she’d been reading too many spy novels, maybe it really had been no more than Mojave sand in the CPU, and their tired overactive imaginations.

“Hello, Bonnie,” KITT's voice responded to her access.

“KITT!” she blurted out loud, wheeling away from the terminal toward the black Trans-Am.

“Hello Bonnie,” the vehicle repeated, then innocently asked: “Where’s Michael?”

“KITT, where’s…” Bonnie started to ask at the same time she heard KITT's question.  Her stomach squirmed queasily.  “Don’t you know?” she demanded in a near-scream.

“No.  Don’t you?”

“Oh god.”  Her insides lurched, her head swam.  The sensations of evil foreboding over­whelmed her again, stronger than ever.  For a moment she lost her orientation.

The car seemed unaware of her mental confusion.  “Why is my power train disconnected?” it asked naïvely.

“KITT, where did you leave Michael?”

“I don’t know,” the computer responded.  “I was taking Michael to Reno, and now I’m here.”  The voice hesitated, a human-like hesitation of puzzlement.  “Oh dear, I seem to have misplaced Michael.  Oh dear.”

“You’re not supposed to misplace Michael!” Bonnie accused, yelling at herself as much as the machine.  “Where is he?  What did you do with him?”

“I don’t know.  I’m sorry , Bonnie.  I don’t remember doing anything with him.  I’m search­ing my memory banks right now.”

“There’s blood all over your front end! – Michael’s blood!  What did you do to him?  Did you kill him?”

“I have no memory of that.  It’s against my programming to injure or kill any human being – and certainly not Michael.”

“Then why is his blood all over you?!”

“Oh dear, oh dear.”  The programmed human-like personality now seemed a grotesque parody.  “This is bad.  This is very bad.  I’m not supposed to lose Michael.”

Bonnie felt very close to a mental breakdown just then.  _Where do you go from here? oh god where do you go from here?_

Bootsteps entering the garage made her look up.  Against the brilliant outdoor glare, she saw Michael’s tall lean frame silhouetted in the garage doorway, strolling toward her.  He used a cane, walking with a slight limp of his right leg.

“Michael! oh god where’ve you been…” she blurted excitedly and moved toward him before realizing the obvious absurdity.  Her voice trailed off in puzzlement.

KITT corrected her.  “No, Bonnie, that isn’t Michael.”

Of course KITT was right – she saw that for herself as the man stepped closer.  But the resem­blance was uncanny.  Except for a small neatly-trimmed goatee beard and moustache and a tiny silver stud earring piercing his left earlobe, the man could easily pass for Michael.  The full head of brown curls, the cupid-bow lips, the pale eyes, all like Michael’s… no, not the eyes, there was something different about the eyes, the same shape, the same pale blue, but something different inside – what?

“No,” the man smiled.  “I’m not Michael.  My name is Garth Knight – I’m Michael’s twin brother.”  Ice-blue gaze hypnotized her. 

 _Mephistopheles_.

(... now where the hell had _that_ come from...?)

“Oh,” she nodded absently.  Somewhere in her head a warning buzzed but didn’t connect to anything solid yet.

A different voice, a deeper voice.  How strange to hear it emanate from Michael’s lips.  Something was very odd.

She sensed vibes that she immediately disliked, although for what reasons she couldn’t exac­tly say.  The man exuded a heavy animal sensuality, a dark eroticism – the antithesis of Michael’s open friendly sexiness.  A black shirt embroidered with silver thread lay half-open on his chest; tight black jeans emphasized a slender waist, hard muscled thighs.  And her female gaze couldn’t help but notice the swelling at his fly as his eyes lingered over her.

“What’s your name?” he asked pleasantly.

She caught herself – she shouldn’t be staring so intently.  A little self-consciously she shifted her gaze to his face.  “I’m Bonnie Barstow, the IT manager and resident mechanic for the Founda­tion.”

“That’s an interesting occupation for a woman, although I’m sure you hear that often.”

She smiled hesitantly down at the concrete floor.

He did not avert his penetrating stare.  “My father always respected anyone, man or woman, who used their talents to the best of their intelligence.”

“Your father?”

“Wilton Knight – your deceased employer.  Now that he’s dead, I’ve decided to take a deeper interest in the family business.  Knight Corporation now belongs to me.”  His eyes made no secret of studying her breasts.  It made her uneasy.  Michael enjoyed her figure too, but at least he wasn’t nearly so obvious about it – at least not outside the privacy of their rooms.  She had always enjoyed his attentions – she wasn’t so sure what to make of this man, Wilton Knight’s other…

Wait a minute.  That warning buzzer just made contact.  Wilton Knight’s other son.

She caught his gaze.  “Mr. Knight, how can you be Michael’s twin brother, when Michael isn’t really Wilton Knight’s son?”

Garth Knight smiled.  “Ask Devon that question some day,” he side-stepped her inquiry.  “It’s an interesting story…  You know,” he was saying, “if you’re a really good mechanic, I’ll give you a fifty-percent raise over whatever my father was paying you.  The Corporation needs to keep good mechanics and IT experts.”  He stood close in front of her, closer than the normal socially-acceptable distance.  She would have moved away, but she found herself boxed-in with KITT's passenger-side door at her back.  Garth’s tall frame, several inches over six feet, towered over her, his gaze pos­sessed her.  “…And if you’ll join me for dinner tonight, I’d like to hear about your job duties, and perhaps we can discuss any suggestions for improvements you might like to share.”

She wished Michael was here, she wished anyone was here, so she wouldn’t have to be alone with this stranger with the disturbingly familiar face.  Her mind posed a scary question; she forced herself to dismiss it, surely he wouldn’t try anything, not in broad daylight, not here in the garage where anyone could walk in at any time… _so where was someone? please, someone walk in, please!_

As he began to lower his head. she didn’t wait to see if he intended to kiss her, but hastily slipped out sideways from between him and the car, and moved as casually as possible to the open floor area.

“I still don’t understand about you and Michael,” she ventured cautiously.  “How can you possibly look so much alike if you’re not related?”

A grin tightened Garth’s lips as he strolled up behind her.  “It’s a complicated story.  I’ll tell you all about it when we have more time – perhaps at dinner tonight?”

She nodded abruptly.  “All right.”

“Good.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll continue my tour of the estate.  Since I just in­her­ited the company, I thought I should check out the grounds first.  I’d better hurry if I’m going to finish by dinner-time.  Will you join me at the Foundation house about seven o’clock?”

“Okay,” she agreed uneasily, and hoped that her expression didn’t look as hollow as his.  Anxiety squeezed her insides.

“Fine,” he smiled.  An ice smile.  “Until seven then, Miss Barstow.”  As he stepped around the Trans-Am, his fingers caressed the cool obsidian finish.  “Goodbye, KITT.”

“Goodbye, Garth,” the car answered perfunctorily.

When he was out of earshot, Bonnie commented to the vehicle, “I don’t like him, KITT, I really don’t like him.  I don’t know why.”

“I don’t like him either,” the machine agreed (despite the fact that robots are incapable of like or dislike.)

Something crazy was happening.  What did it mean?  What on earth was going on?  Oh god she had to find Devon – hopefully he was still up at the house.  If he didn’t know that Garth Knight was here, he’d have to be told… and besides, Bonnie suddenly had an uncontrollable urge not to be alone any longer.

She hurried out of the garage, only to see Garth some distance ahead of her striding toward the house.  Hastily she stepped back into the garage, picked up the intercom phone and punched up Devon’s office extension – why did her hand tremble like that? – _please answer, Devon, please hurry!_

“Devon here.”  He sounded half-asleep.

“Devon, it’s me, Bonnie.  I’m in the garage with KITT right now, and…”

Devon interrupted her apologetically.  “Bonnie, I’m so sorry for snapping at you earlier.  That was completely unforgivable of me.  Please, why don’t you quit on the car for awhile now, and come up to the house, let me fix something for us to eat…”  He must have suddenly sensed her apprehen­sion.  “Bonnie, is everything all right?”

She tried to control her anxious breathing.  “I’m all right.  Devon, do you know someone named Garth Knight?  He says he’s Wilton Kni…”

“Garth!”

“He was just here in the garage with me a minute ago.  Devon, it’s crazy, he looks just like Michael,,,”

“He’s here? now?”

“Yes…”

“My god.”

“… What is it, Devon?”  No response.  “Devon, he said something about inheriting the com­pany from his father.  What’s going on?  Who is he?”

“Damn!” the Englishman swore under his breath.  “Do you know where he is now?”

“I think he’s headed up to the house.”

“Dear, I want you to stay in the garage for a little while, will you do that?  I’ll page you over the intercom when it’s safe to come back.”

“Devon, what…?!”

The connection clicked dead in her hand.  She had hoped that Devon would reassure her; in­stead, she was more upset now than ever… what on earth was going on? she hated to just stand by in blindness and nervous frustration, imaging the worst, fighting adrenalin queasiness in her stomach… _get a hold of yourself, girl, for god’s sake, having an anxiety attack right now isn’t going to help any­body_ …  'Safe to come back', what on earth had Devon meant by that? who was Garth Knight?  Wilton Knight had never mentioned a son, neither had Devon… and god, why the crazy resemblance to Michael?

“What is it, Bonnie?” KITT inquired.  “Your vitals are elevated, and you appear agitated.  Is something wrong?”

Helplessly she shook her head.  “I don’t know, KITT.”

She sat down at her desk in the corner of the garage, and took down the 2000 software manual from the shelf one more time.  If she was going to have to spend a long while away from the house, she could at least try to use the time profitably.  And besides, she couldn’t thoughtfully digest a de­tailed programming manual and still worry about Garth Knight at the same time.  And Wilton Knight, and Devon...

… and Michael.  
  
* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To save Michael’s life, Devon is forced to make a deal with the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! WARNING! From here on this story gets extremely dark. It’s probably the darkest I’ve every written. There is a lot of physical violence. Garth’s vicious brutality tortures everybody – literally – as he takes tyrannical and utter control of Knight Corporation and Michael and Devon – and Bonnie.
> 
> So please be forewarned, all ye who enter here!

Garth.  That explained a lot.

Damn, what a headache – he should have known better than to swallow three glasses of that stuff when he really wasn’t used to it – oh well, the long nap had helped a lot, he wasn’t drunk any­more, and at least it had made up a little for the last three sleepless nights… he desperately needed a couple of aspirins, had he remembered to re-stock the medicine cabinet or not?

It should have been obvious from the start.  There was no breakdown of the system, there never had been.  This was sabotage – but no amateur job: this was highly sophisticated, virtually un­detectable infiltration.  Garth was that intelligent.

But Garth had left five years ago, and after five years they had just assumed that Knight’s son had accordantly faded into the background, never again to re-surface.  What a stupid dangerous assumption.

Michael had never been told about Garth.  He should have been.  That was another gross mis­take.

Of course, Wilton Knight had committed the first sin.  Michael’s plastic surgery had re-crea­ted him as the twin to a man he never even knew existed.  Devon had never understood senior’s moti­vation beyond that of an old man with a desire to replace the son he’d lost.  The story of Wilton’s Knight’s ex-wife and outlaw son and their schemes for a corporate take-over was a closed chapter in the old man’s life; few people knew the details.  But Michael should have been told.  He of all people had had a right to know.  However, Wilton had stubbornly chosen not to do so, and had demanded his adjutant’s confidence; and Devon had agreed, against his better judgment, to keep the dying man’s secret.  Now he deeply regretted that promise, but regret did no one any good, and besides, it was far too late now anyway.

Where the hell was the aspirin?  Maybe there was some in the main bathroom downstairs.  He stepped out of the bathroom back into the study.

“Hello, Devon,” a deep voice greeted from the study doorway.

Devon jerked to attention, head snapped around to the door.  “Garth!  What are you doing here?”

Wielding a cane in his right hand, the big man strolled into the room, limping slightly.  “Why don’t you at least act civil and say hello, Devon?  It’s been five years.”

“How did you get onto the grounds?  This is a secure establishment, how did you get past the main gate?”

Garth Knight shrugged casually.  “The guard waved me right on through.”  Innocent eyes mocked Devon.  “… I guess he mis­took me for someone else.” 

“So.”  A stoic look settled on Devon’s face.  “I assume that means you know about Michael,” he noted.  “And no doubt you also know that he’s been missing for three days.”

Garth commandeered a hard-back chair from a few feet away, took time to make himself comfortable, rubbed a hand over his stiff right thigh.  He ignored Devon’s icy glare.  Instead he let his gaze wander over the room lazily.  “Tell me, Devon,” he commented trivially, “are you still just as stiff and British as ever, or have you developed any human vices since we last met?”

“What do you want, Garth?” Devon insisted.  “What have you done with Michael?”

“Why do you assume I’ve done anything with Michael?”

“Because it’s curious that you should relinquish your exile and return here to the Foundation at the same time that Michael vanishes.”

“I borrowed him to conduct a little experiment,” Garth admitted freely.  “I wanted to test the 2000’s maneuverability and tactical programming against that of a human on foot, so I turned the car on Michael out in the desert yesterday.”

“You _what?!”_

“… you know, Devon, I don’t think you fully appreciate what a piece of precision machinery KITT is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I let the car chase Michael.  You know, I’ll bet he covered several miles at a dead run ‘til his heart nearly gave out.”

Devon felt his stomach lurch.  “My god, that’s insane!”

Garth’s face registered nonchalance.

“Where is Michael now?” Devon demanded.

“We’ll get into that later.”

“Why are you here, Garth?”

The younger man’s gaze finally settled on Devon.  “I’m here to complete the take-over which my mother and I began eight years ago.  I want the company.  I intend to control Knight Corporation and all its subsidiaries.”

“You and Elizabeth acted disgracefully!  You both caused Wilton terrible pain.”  Devon had seated himself of the couch facing Garth’s chair.  “Five years ago your father paid you and your mother thirty million dollars to leave and sever all connections with Knight.  Surely you haven’t squandered the entire amount in just five years.”

 “Mother is dead, and I haven’t wasted a penny of it, old man.  I invested most of it in a few small obsolete computer and robotic firms, and donated to them some state-of-the-art technology – which I skimmed from Knight’s R & D without your even knowing it – and they were so impressed and grateful that all three handed their board presidencies to me.  They’re too small to ever rival Knight, but they amuse me and cushion my bank account against the rising cost-of-living.”

“Then why do you need Knight? don’t three board presidencies keep you busy enough?”

“My father created it.  It’s my birthright.”

“The devil it is!”

“You’re going to hand it over to me, old man.”

“Never!”

“… you’ll call a special directors’ meeting and let them know of my come-back.  Then you’ll announce your untimely retirement, due to whatever circumstances you wish to say, and now you’re recommending that the Board install me as president pro-tem.  It’s that simple.”

Scorn twisted Devon’s expression.  “Even if you force me to assist this absurd plan of yours, how can you be so arrogant as to assume the Board will even accept you?”

“With your blessing they will.”

“I’m only one of eleven votes.  You over-estimate my influence.”

Garth slouched in his seat.  He snorted in disdain.  “They’re a bunch of old fools.  Most of them will play right into my hands.  Ed Winters has been on the board since before you: he always spoke highly of nepotism – not to mention, he’s appreciated the constant supply of Havanas sent to him by a ‘secret supporter’.  He’ll be overjoyed to vote Wilton Knight’s son into the presidency, with or without your blessing.  And old Bertram Farrell was already senile ten years ago; he’s certainly no threat to me.  And I’ve investigated the others, I’ve discovered their dirty little secrets.  We’re all greedy bastards, we just differ in our willingness to take risks.”

“You’re the greediest of all,” Devon snapped.  “And you’re a fool if you think that I will sim­ply hand over control to you without a fight.  I’m afraid you can’t ply me with cigars, and I don’t carry on secret affairs with other men’s wives.”

“No… but if necessary, I can manipulate the Board against you.  After all, it does seem sus­picious that as soon as the owner’s son is exiled, look who ends up in the CEO’s chair.  Besides, Devon Miles, you do have your weaknesses too.”

“What?”

“Your saccharin sentiments for your friends, for my father… for Michael...”

Aggressively Devon leaned forward.  “What have you done with Michael?” he demanded again.  “For that matter, this may all be a bluff; how do I know you really have him?”

“You don’t… but only a fool bargains with an empty hand.  And no, old man, despite what you suggest, I’m not a fool.”

“I want to see Michael, I want to speak with him.”

“Well, you can’t talk with him right now – I doubt that he’s coherent enough to make any sense at this time – but you can see him.”  And from his breast pocket Garth pulled out a couple of items and tossed them onto the couch beside Devon.

They were two Polaroid snapshots… of Michael.  Michael, lying spread-eagle in the sand, face-up under the desert sun, limbs broken, bloody features wrenched in agonizing pain.

Devon felt vomit heave in his belly, his eyes blurred with tears.  “Oh my god,” he whispered.

Garth indicated the snapshots by a nod.  “It was a very interesting contest between man and machine.  You should have been there.”

Devon’s eyes snapped up.  “God damn you!”

“… you know, he even got down on his shattered knees once, and begged me to call off the car.  He _begged_ me, Devon.”  Excitement of the memory stirred in Garth’s eyes.

“You’re completely mad!”

Garth just shrugged again mildly.  “That’s your opinion.”

“Where is Michael now?”

“Somewhere.”

“ _Where is Michael now?_   Is he receiving medical attention?”

“Minimal.  Enough to keep him alive.”

Devon’s body jerked stiffly, slid forward to the edge of his seat, his pale eyes alive with hat­red.  “Take him to a hospital.”

“That’s what we bargain over, Mr. Miles.”

“Take him to a hospital!”

“We still have a lot to discuss, Devon – about how you’re going to turn over all of Knight’s operation to me, and open up all of the confidential case files… and kiss my boots whenever I tell you…”

“Damn you, get him to a hospital right now!”  Anxiety nearly thrust Devon to his feet.  “I won’t discuss anything with you until you get him to a hospital!”

“Fine,” the younger man agreed, “as long as you understand the terms.”

“Damn you!”

Casually Garth pushed himself out of his comfortable slouch, and strolled over to the phone on Devon’s desk.

A grotesque phantasm of Michael’s bleeding body, wherever he was now, lingered before Devon’s eyes.  It made him ill.  He watched the man making the phone call.  Garth always had been a poison to reckon with – ultimately Wilton had felt compelled against his fatherly love to banish the son from his life with orders never to return to Knight – but now it seemed that the ensuing five years had only increased Garth’s malignancy.

In less than a minute Garth hung up the receiver.  He smiled a pointless smile.

Devon stared at him in near-disbelief.  “What could Michael have possibly done to you,” he demanded out of curiosity, “that you could hate him so viciously for?  Michael never even knew of your existence.”

“You’re right about that.”  Garth smiled a twisted little sneer.  “You should have seen the look on his face when we first met: you’d think he’d seen the devil in the mirror.  On the other hand, I’ve known about Michael since shortly after the plastic surgery.  People began mistaking me for someone else, I couldn’t imagine why – so I did a little investigating.  And what should I discover but my very own twin brother… who had never existed before the summer of 1982!  Interesting.”

“And for that you ran him down and mutilated him?”

“There’s only room in this world for one Knight heir, and if you remember, old man, _I_ have prior claim to this face.  My father seemed to forget that he already had a son when he gave my face to another man!”

“Your father never forgot the torment you wracked him with.  He regretted you until the day he died.”

“He put another man in my place.  He even gave him our name.”  A dark intensity shadowed Garth’s voice.  “But that’s only a part of it, old man.  You see, Michael not usurped my place in the family company… he also took my place in my woman’s bed!”

“That’s absurd!  Michael doesn’t even know your woman.”

“Yes he does.  You both do.”  Slow tension stiffened Garth’s lean muscular body.  He sat for­ward in his chair.  “Last year I wanted to get back inside Knight.  I couldn’t do it by myself, so I sent my woman instead.  Do you remember a certain damsel-in-distress named Adrianne St. Clair?”

Devon straightened.  He did remember her.  She had begged the Foundation to help her locate a missing brother, and Michael had done what he could for her, but no brother had ever materialized.  They had offered their condolences, and she had donated several thousand dollars to the Foundation and thanked them for their assistance.  Evidently they had been of more assistance than they had rea­lized.

“Adrianne became entranced with your Michael Long – she became obsessed,” Garth was saying.  “Devon, do you know the hell of lying beside a woman and taking her body, while all the time she’s telling you about a man more satisfying than you? that he took her night after night, and she lusts for him, but only settles for you because you look like him?”

“That’s a lie!” Devon blurted.  “Michael’s interest in her was strictly professional.”

“How would _you_ know what he did after-hours?” Garth countered tautly.  “Well, let’s hope it’s a lie, old man.  Let’s hope Adrianne is just playing a game to make me jealous.  Because if I ever find out that Michael actually did take her to bed, I’ll cut his balls off.”

Sudden rage blinded Devon, the horror-thought of this psychotic enemy further torturing a helpless Michael, and he sprang at Garth, his only desire to crush the man’s throat.

A roar of anger broke from Garth’s chest; he lurched forward out of his chair, and swung a vicious backhand across Devon’s face, sprawling the older man across the hardwood floor.  Painfully Devon’s head smacked into a table leg, stunning him momentarily.  Garth’s lean muscular body towered over the fallen man, savagery flashing in pale eyes.  “Someday, old man,” he promised, “I’m going to beat the hell out of you!”

For one frightening moment, Devon wondered if Garth might snatch up the cane right then and beat him to death with it; instead, Garth abruptly turned away from his victim and stepped across the room.  He spotted the whiskey bottle on the desk, poured himself a drink in Devon’s glass and swallowed it down.

Stiffly Devon staggered to his feet, shakily collecting his scattered senses.  The headache pounded worse now between his eyes.  He watched Garth across the room, emotions roiling in his belly: Uneasiness, anger, scorn.

“This is monstrous!” he pronounced explicitly.  “Get out of here, Garth.  Your father ordered you never to return.”

“My father is rotting in his grave, and _you_ have no right to order me anywhere, old man!  I’ve come to get revenge for what my father did to me, and take back the company like I should have eight years ago.”

“Your father did nothing to you that you didn’t fully deserve, Garth.  Your conduct was un­speakable then… and though you may resent Michael, mangling him with the car was insanely bes­tial!  I’ll not surrender to you no matter what your blackmail!”

“Of course you will.  You won’t sacrifice Michael for a corporation’s papers.  Your morality and ethics won’t let you.”  Casual contempt oiled Garth’s tone of voice.

But Devon remained unimpressed.  His voice reflected the apathy of fatigue.  “So, you’ve proven your point, Garth.  You’ve shown you’re quite capable of breaching elaborate security sys­tems and violating complex computer programs.  Therefore, I am willing to pay you off as your father did.  What more can I offer you?  How much money do you want, to abandon all connections with Knight Corporation?”

“My birthright is not for sale, old man!  I didn’t come here to extort ransom.  I finally decided I was bored with exile, so there’s nothing you can offer to make me crawl away again like a whipped dog.  I want the Corporation, Devon, and you’re going to give it to me.”  A deprecating smile pulled at Garth’s lips.  “Don’t worry, old man, you’ll get used to it.  For twenty-seven years you licked my father's boots, now you’ll lick mine.”

“You bastard!”

Garth’s grin was bright and ugly.  “That’s one thing, I’m not – but I’d say it’s pretty apt for your fabricated ‘Michael Knight’ – if anyone is a bastard to the Knight name, it’s him, wouldn’t you agree?  Well,” he concluded, and his smile softened, “it’s nice to be back home.  You and I have a lot of catching up to do, Devon… it’s been a long five years.  We’ll talk again later.”

And the he was gone; and suddenly Devon was acutely aware of his headache, which had briefly retreated but now returned with brain-searing force, and he wondered fleetingly if his tumble had given him a concussion.  His right shoulder throbbed like it might be sprained, and his right hip promised to be bruised tomorrow.  Garth was right about one thing: he was an old man now, too old for a physical confrontation.

What the hell was he going to do?  
  
* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Devon…” Anguish tightened Bonnie’s face; she didn’t want to cry again. “Devon, will you please tell me what’s going on? Who is Garth?”
> 
> Pain tightened Devon’s eyes. “… Garth is the antithesis of his father. Wilton, always the altruist, always the philanthropist, sired a human fiend with a twisted psychopathic mentality. We never expected Garth to return.”

Even after Bonnie had finished checking everything of KITT's that she could think of, the robotic vehicle still complained that systems were out of synchronization.  She spent another half- hour re-tuning and re-scoping every major component listed in the book.

Finally with a sigh of futility, she dropped KITT's hood closed.  “Well, I give up,” she surren­dered.  “Your transverse power module checks out fine on the scope.  Maybe it’s all just in your head.”

“Please don’t joke, Bonnie,” the black Trans-Am urged.  “You’re beginning to sound like Michael.  You of all humans should be aware that, as a computer, I am incapable of creating psycho­somatic complaints.”

“I know, KITT,” she assured.  “I didn’t mean it that way.  It’s just that I’m very tired right now, and I’m frustrated, and I’m just…” – her voice broke; tears welled and spilled over her cheeks.  She squeezed the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger – “… I’m just sick about Michael…”

“Where is Michael?” the car asked again innocently.

The question made a stronger flood of tears sting her eyes.  Tension squeezed her chest as she fought the tears back.  She shook her head, sniffed, dabbed her runny nose with her knuckles.  “I don’t know where Michael is, KITT, don’t you remember anything about where you left him?”

“No, I don’t, Bonnie.  My memory circuits seen dysfunctional.  I’ve told you all I can remem­ber at this time.  I’m sorry.”

Her heart sank.  Accessing those memory storage units manually might be possible, but it would also be an interminably long complicated task.

“Start yourself up, KITT,” she urged.  “I’ll check the power-module sync one more time.”

KITT's engine revved, then dropped to idle speed.  “It appears to be working now,” he repor­ted.  “The problem is intermittent.”

“Well, it’s possible that there’s a breakdown unrelated to whatever has caused your memory failure,” the young woman suggested.  “Maybe the power component is just getting old and wearing out.  But right now, anyway, I’m not seeing any fluctuation in the power-output readings.  We may just have to wait until it fails completely, then I’ll replace the unit.”

“I hope not,” KITT commented.  “I hate to let any of my components fail.  I feel so impotent when I lose any of my functions.”

“I know you do, KITT,” she consoled.  “Maybe if we check it again later, something more definite will show up.”

The garage phone rang.  Bonnie jerked in startlement, then lunged for the receiver.  “Hello?”  she could hardly get the word out, she was trembling so badly with adrenalin shock.

“Bonnie, it’s Devon,” the Englishman’s voice announced much more calmly than Bonnie’s.  “You can come back to the house now.”

“Oh thank god,” Bonnie breathed, “oh thank god.  Are you all right, Devon?  What’s going on?”

“I’m fine dear.  We’ll talk as soon as you get here.”  He sounded fine, but that still didn’t reas­sure her.  But for now, Bonnie just wanted to overlook that.

“All right, Devon, I’ll be right there.”

She nearly ran out of the garage back to the house.

She thought the Foundation house had never looked so good.  Right now all she needed was to see Devon and hear him say that everything was finally back to normal and Michael would be home soon.  She jogged up the front steps and pushed open the heavy oaken front door.

“Hello again, Miss Barstow,” Garth Knight greeted from the leather great-chair in the sitting room.

For a moment the sight of him caught her cold, and she hesitated, staring in surprise.  He wasn’t supposed to still be here.

The man with Michael’s face smiled invitingly.  “I’m glad you’re not late for dinner. I appre­ciate a woman who’s punctual…  Oh, if you want to see Devon, he’s up in his study right now.”

His chuckle followed her up the stairs.

Devon stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tenderly nursing a bruised cheekbone.  Bonnie’s concerned expression reflected in the mirror; he turned away from the basin, and greeted mildly, “Bonnie darling, are you all right?”

She nodded, despite the uneasiness in her gut.  She wasn't sure if she was all right or not.

“I’m so sorry, dear…” he started to apologize.

“Devon…”  Anguish tightened her face; she didn’t want to cry again.  “Devon, will you _please_ tell me what’s going on?  _Who_ is Garth?”

Devon’s shoulder contracted in a helpless shrug, and he returned to his first-aid.  “Garth is the son of Wilton and Elizabeth Knight.  Both he and his mother are heartless poisonous vipers.  A num­ber of years ago they attempted to seize control of the Corporation.  Wilton was able to hold onto the company, but only because he finally divorced his wife and disowned his son.  For the rest of his life, Wilton regretted the necessity of that action… but he had no other choice.”  The Englishman strolled behind Bonnie, back into the study.

“… Garth is the antithesis of his father.  Wilton, always the altruist, always the philanthropist, sired a human fiend with a twisted psychopathic mentality.  Charitably he tolerated the son for thirty years before ultimately expelling him from the Knight heritage.”  The older man slumped on the couch, tenderly touched his bruised face.  “We never expected Garth to return.  What a foolish as­sumption.”

Bonnie was frowning at the livid mark on his cheek.  “Did he do that to you?”  she demanded.

Devon nodded almost apologetically.  “During our… discussion, I’m afraid I lost my temper and tried to assault him… He struck back and knocked me down, but that was all.”

“That was all?!”

He shrugged a too-casual shrug.  “I’m all right, dear.  Really.”

“Devon…”  Another question prodded her mind: “Why does Garth look so much like Michael?”

Devon frowned down at his clasped hands in his lap.  He wanted to avoid her inquiry, but there was no way.  “You know about Michael’s plastic surgery,” he reminded.  “It was… Wilton’s choice to re-mold his features to a likeness of Garth’s.”

“But why?”

“I don’t really know.  To be the son Wilton always wanted, I suppose.”

Bonnie shook her head helplessly.  “That was a crazy thing to do,” she pronounced.

For a long time they sat together on the couch, quietly.  Downstairs they could Garth holding a one-sided conversation regarding dinner; evidently he was on the phone to the staff cafeteria.  His voice rose and fell emphatically as he reiterated the menu he wanted catered at the Foundation house within the half-hour, and then they heard him laugh, and then after a minute the monologue ceased.  
* * * * *

In scornful silence Devon watched the parody of a board meeting proceeding around him.  Just as Garth had predicted, the board accepted him unanimously, whatever their individual motiva­tions.  Obviously Garth had done a thorough job of ingratiating himself ahead of time for the week now that he’d been at Knight, and no doubt he had planted the seeds long before this: catering to the weaknesses of some of them, playing on the emotions of others; so with Devon’s terse announcement of support, they efficiently voted Garth into the president’s chair with a single cast of ballots.

For right now, Garth handled it smoothly, fondled it gently, for right now he promised to con­tinue running Knight in the magnanimous altruistic manner of his dear late father.  And he publicly thanked Devon for selflessly substituting for so many months after the senior Knight’s death until the son returned to claim the

( _throne ?_ )

helm of the Corporation.  Devon considered spitting in his face.

Garth had done his homework; he demonstrated great intimacy with the three branches of the Corporation: the Foundation for Law and Government, Knight Industries, and Knight Biomedical Research Laboratories, which delighted the board, particularly Edward Winters who, as Garth as pre­dicted, had been eager to cast his vote for nepotism.  But no wonder: Garth had freely admitted to  Devon that he’d been tapping into corporate data for the last five months, copying Knight’s confi­dential information systems for his own utilization.

Five months… how had they been so blind? why hadn't they noticed sooner?  Bugs in the pro­grams, integrity checks that appeared questionable, assorted occasional irregularities: had they been the usual day-to-day frustrations of any computer system, or had they been tiny symptoms of penetra­tion?  Garth admitted he’d been in Knight’s system for five months; however, he refused to reveal what he’d done inside the programs during that length of time.  They’d never be able to completely uncover such insidious pervasive sabotage… and here these ten old fools sat enraptured by the veno­mous charisma of this viper.

A couple of the men who were casually acquainted with Michael noted Garth’s resemblance, and Garth had agreed, yes, it’s uncanny, isn’t it?, and had said no more.  They asked about Michael and were told truthfully enough that Michael had suffered a serious accident with the Knight Indus­tries Two Thousand unit, but was now recuperating peacefully at the home of a friend.

As chairman of Knight Industries, Dan Albrecht expressed great concern over the 2000’s loss of program integrity.  Garth had agreed with him, assuring him that all forthcoming designs would be engineered absolutely hazard-proof; after all, they had all known that the 2000 was not completely fail-safe, and sooner or later a tragedy of this magnitude was bound to occur anyway.

Albrecht questioned that a system could be guaranteed fail-safe, but Garth insisted he had already created one comparable to the 2000 as an exercise in college – it was simple, if certain princi­ples of engineering were kept in mind – and he’d be glad to share the drawings with Albrecht at a later date.

One of the men turned his attention to Devon at the far end of the table.  “You’ve been dour all evening, Miles – what do you think of the young man’s boast?”

“I’m sure you’ll find his engineering principles sound,” Devon responded succinctly.

Robert Grant, chairman of Biomedical, speared Garth.  “You know, Knight, we checked up on you.”

“Oh, did you, Mr. Grant,” Garth commented mildly.

“… a triple major in computer science, robotics, and business management, and top of all three departments – how were you able to acquire such an impressive record?”

“The same way you control Biomedical and chair the landscape committee, Mr. Grant, and still have time for your lovely wife and four kids,” Garth riposted gently.  “If a man is committed to success, he’ll succeed.”

Devon glared at the young despot, and he remembered another sweet-tongued tyrant when he was half Garth’s age; and although Garth’s ultimate desires probably fell short of world domination, still, the fleeting comparison animated old memories, resurrected old horrors.

“… taking into consideration the 325 petabyte capacity of the 3000,” Albrecht was saying, extolling the abilities of the Industries’ newest brainchild – the descendant of KITT's futuristic-but-already-obsolete system – “I think we should seriously discuss replacing the 1175 as the primary sys­tem for Knight.  After all, according to Engineering, the range of the applications software is practi­cally limitless.”

Garth shook his head.  “It would be a waste of time.  Once I’ve had a chance to exchange notes with you, Mr. Albrecht, I think R & D can develop another system which could be manipulated to actually _be_ limitless.  I suggest we hold onto our money and stay with the 1175, as primitive as it is, for another six months until the new system is finalized, and then use that to reprogram Knight’s database.”

“In six months?” Ed Winters, seated beside Grant, challenged.  “An entirely new computer system can’t be brought from drawing board to full operation in six months.”

“I’ll see that it is,” Garth countered, “and you can note that as my first promise as CEO.”

“You’re full of confidence, Mr. Knight.”  Albrecht got up from his seat to visit the coffee machine in the back of the room.  “You display an inordinate familiarity with Knight’s research, for someone who’s been away for five years.”

“Well, Devon has been keeping me in intimate contact, so I wouldn’t lose touch with my father’s work.”

“Is that true, Miles?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Devon had to admit.

“You’ve decided to close down the Foundation for awhile.  Why?”

“Garth chose not to take on any more cases at the present time.  The clerical staff will remain and will close out pending files.  Besides, with neither Michael nor KITT functional at this time, it would be purposeless to initiate any new investigations.”

“So, Miles, you’ve not only turned over the presidency to Knight, but the Foundation chair as well?”

“That’s right,” Devon conceded, and ignored Garth’s subtle grin.

“Can he deliver what he promises?”

“Tell them, Mr. Miles,” Garth gently mocked.  “I always deliver what I promise.”

Devon’s face stiffened.  “Yes,” he snapped brusquely.

“But what about the 3000?” Bertram Farrell interrupted, knowingly or unknowingly defusing the incipient stand-off.  “If it’s going to be obsolete in six months, why bother to put the time and energy into it at all?”

Garth politely tolerated the old man.  “Mr. Farrell, the 3000 will be for commercial applica­tion.  The most advanced system will be Knight’s secret – with it, we’ll wield greater power than any other corporation in the field.  But to the rest of the world, the 3000 will be far from obsolete.  Already we’ve aroused the curiosity of a number of interested customers, as you’re fully aware.  We’ll sell it to the highest bidder.”

Devon leaned forward intently.  “Your father was far less concerned with power and the buyer’s pocketbook than with the customer’s ability to put the product to the best use for the most people.”

Garth smiled, that infuriating patronizing indulgent smile.  “You forget, Mr. Miles, it takes money to run a philanthropic organization.  The money’s got to come from somewhere.  Mr. Harris, I’d like to see the bids we’ve already collected.”

“Well, of course nothing is solid at this point until the proposal is actually submitted…”

Devon ignored the rest of the pointless conversation.  Disgust nauseated him, disgust for such a brutal parasite.

And again, behind his eyes, Devon saw the snapshots of Michael’s bloody figure and broken limbs, and again he felt moisture well in his eyes.

Garth had been true to his promise: for the price of the president’s seat, he was perfectly wil­ling to make the phone call which transferred Michael to a hospital.  He would not tell Devon which hospital, but Devon guessed it was in Mexico somewhere, because ten hours later, a long-distance call came through, which Garth allowed Devon to sit in on, a conversation between Garth and the coördinating trauma surgeon, half in English, half in Spanish.  A conversation in which Devon was unable to remain dry-eyed to the end.

According to the doctor, Michael had been run down by a vehicle at least twelve hours pre­viously, maybe more.  The fact that he hadn't already died of hemorrhage and shock from such massive trauma was sheer luck in itself.  And it was another piece of luck that for now they wouldn’t have to amputate his legs… however, if his condition worsened, they would amputate to save his life.  Bilateral lower leg and right femur fractures, broken ribs, fractured left arm, large soft-tissue wounds, countless bruises, filthy abrasions, concussion.

The doctor stated that Michael, even in his semi-conscious state, had exhibited signs of agita­tion and distress when touched, and had reacted quite vigorously when they had placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.  The doctor said there were other injuries as well, apparently unrela­ted to the car accident: marks of what appeared to be cigarette burns on his inner arms, signs of strangulation around his throat.  The doctor announced that Michael had been tortured.

Now Devon’s gaze scanned the table of ten men, the directors of Knight Corporation.  Most of them had sat on the board for at least twenty years – a couple even longer – as long as Devon.  Three of the men, including Dan Albrecht, had come aboard within the last five years, after Garth’s exile.  They didn’t know him from before; of the decem, they were the quietest.  The other men, the older members, applauded Garth vociferously, approved enthusiastically the younger Knight’s acces­sion to the throne – yes, throne.  And that was odd, because they had all know Garth since he was an adolescent; they should have remembered the power-greed of the adult who had attempted eight years ago to usurp his father’s chair – the very chair he now occupied so comfortably.  Garth had called them old fools, how right he was.

But Devon saved most of his disgust for himself, that he would knowingly allow this man ac­cess to Knight’s vital organs – at least the others had excuses in their ignorance and **/** or senility.  He had none.  Consciously he had permitted Garth inside and then bit his tongue, sworn to secrecy, just as Knight elder had demanded his silence half-a decade before.  He would not expose Garth to the board, he would support Garth’s pretense, just as he had guarded the old man’s privacy; he had sacri­ficed another man’s future, perhaps even his life.  His silence had damned an innocent man.  Surely Hell reserved a special seat for men like him.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Michael, in the hospital, floats in a Hell-ridden haze of pain and drugs and nightmare, Bonnie and Devon face the monster who has usurped their lives.
> 
> Warning: Descriptions of graphic violence.

The memories returned, playing in his mind over and over again, and half the time he was out of his head with pain and he wasn’t sure if he was just dreaming or if it was happening all over again.

He couldn’t call the police, he couldn’t tell them, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.  He was a grown man, six-foot-four, one-hundred-eighty-five pounds; and they had raped him… of all the things Garth had done to him, that was the most unspeakable, Garth had not taken part, had not even watched – but he had instigated it, he had handed Michael over to those men… _please god please please please make it go away please please please I can’t stand it anymore_ … and he was cry­ing again, crying and crying, and he didn’t want to cry because that made him gag on the plastic tube jammed down his throat and then the nurses would come over and see that he’d been crying and then they would try to ease the pain, only they couldn’t ease the pain, because of all the torture that his body was experiencing, the worst pain was in his head, in his mind and nothing could stop it, nothing, now he was reliving the car chasing him down, oh god he couldn’t get away, four-thousand pounds of steel roaring up, veering at the last moment to miss him head-on, teasing him; and then one time the bumper had caught him at the knees and he had tumbled to the dirt as the mechanical monster screamed past him, and the pain that set his legs on fire, the white-hot pain oh god the pain, he knew something was broken inside but he couldn’t just lie there and scream because now the car had yawed 180 and was screeching down on him again and he had to run or be crushed beneath hot rubber so he ran and the fire in his brain overrode the fire in his legs and he ran and ran and ran, searing pain rip­ping his lungs apart, he ran, he ran, but the vehicle easily overtook him; he jumped to the side, but KITT's maneuverability of which he’d once been so proud out-did him, the computer brain out-thought him as he jack-rabbited in front of it; and as he looked back in glassy horror, the thing struck him, shattering his legs and tumbling him over the hood, and he sprawled to the hard-pan, white-hot agony exploding before his eyes, then the car wheeled around again before he could get up, but he couldn’t get up anyway, so he just curled up tightly on the ground, waiting for death, heart throbbing in desperate fright, head buried between his arms, shivering uncontrollably with terror, and the car struck him again, knocking him tumbling, and he screamed and screamed, screamed his lungs raw, only it didn’t matter anymore because KITT squealed toward him once again, and he tried to scramble away; to Garth spectating from KITT's driver’s seat he begged help­lessly hysterically for mercy, he pleaded Garth to let him go, he pleaded Garth to just let him live, but Garth had only laughed and the engine gunned and the black killer had struck him again, this time so hard he flew through the air to land in a pile of boulders… and finally, blessedly, he passed out from the pain… but that was merely the last act of torture which Garth had committed against him in the three days he’d held Michael prisoner, Michael couldn’t even count the number of ghastly acts which Garth had subjected him to; this man who could pass for a twin brother acted out a brutal vengeance against Michael, and Michael didn’t even know what for, he didn’t even know the man, why god why, what had he done in his life to deserve this, what grotesque sin had he committed, his body shattered, his mind molested; not too long ago his life was once again back on the track, the night­mare of 1982 had finally begun to retreat, he was getting settled, he had a good job, good friends; yet now disaster once more, his entire world destroyed, disintegrated, he couldn’t bear it any longer, he wanted to die, he begged to die; that woman, that witch-woman, Garth’s woman, what she had done to him, even when he ordered her not to, begged her not to, she had cooed to him, fon­dled him, even in front of Garth, she knew how that would enrage Garth, but she just laughed at him, she laughed at both of them and did it anyway; she enjoyed doing it; while restraints bound Michael’s wrists and ankles, she had caressed his struggling body, and when Garth had walked in on them, he had raged, thrown her aside, and then brutalized Michael again; but what did it matter anymore… he was nothing anymore, not a man, not even really alive anymore, flesh and bone shattered, he could only live inside his head now, and even then his mind played games with him, the dope shot into his veins clouded his thinking, he knew that, but whenever it wore off, fiery pain roared through his body and ate his brain alive, so maybe it was bet­ter to float through a hazy limbo rather than experience a sharp world full of devastating screaming pain, he could not move, all his limbs restrained, he could not speak because of the tube in his throat, sometimes he would open his eyes and see smiling concerned faces leaning over him and he would want to talk to them, to tell them where it hurt, to say that he needed his friends beside him right now, but there was no way to communicate, so instead he was left alone inside his head, inside his thoughts and hallucinations and fears, and sometimes he felt hands on him and sometimes he thought they were gentle caring hands, and other times he thought it was Garth’s touch preparing to torture him all over again, and within his limp body Michael fought wildly to run away, to escape, and then he saw the under-carriage of that black monster screaming down on him again and he would scream too, inside his head he would scream… now Bonnie was there beside his bed, she was touch­ing his hand and she was talking to him although he couldn’t exactly know for sure, he couldn’t always tell what was real anymore and what was just the junk playing games in his head again, _please let me wake up, please let me die please please please,_ and still he lay there, and still no one ans­wered him.  
* * * * *

Abruptly she awoke with a start.  A sharp mood had pervaded her dream, something like a psychic flash.  For a moment she lay there trying to reconstruct the thought, what was it? what had she been dreaming about? what had interrupted her so abruptly? Michael, it had to have been some­thing about Michael, but what? what?

Devon would not tell her everything she was sure that he knew.  He had told her that Michael had been run down by KITT, but that he was receiving care in a hospital now.  He had told her that the injuries were bad, but he would not give her the details.  And he had told her that Garth had insti­ga­ted it, that Garth had manipulated a take-over of Knight, and that Garth held them prisoner now by hold­ing Michael’s life as security.

Anxiousness squeezed her insides: she re-lived Garth’s closeness in the garage, the scent of his after-shave, the heat of his sensuality.  What on earth was she going to do?  She had told herself that she’d never be able to fall asleep, she was sure she’d lie awake all night.  But her mind had drif­ted… _dear god, don’t let me fall asleep, not with that maniac in the house_ …

And every night she dreamed disturbing dreams, she dreamed about Michael, she wanted to be with him, he needed her now.

The day after Garth’s arrival at the Foundation, Devon had begged her to leave.  They had sat on a concrete bench in the English rose garden behind the house, and he had held her and hugged her tightly, and she had cried against his chest, a week’s worth of tears, a week’s worth of frustration, anguish, anticipation, fear, exhaustion.  And he had whispered to her, “Darling, I want you to leave Knight.  I want you to go somewhere safe.  For a little while.  Until this is over and Garth is gone.”  But she had shaken her head, still half-sobbing into the handkerchief he’d wadded into her hand, and had managed in a choked-up voice, “No.  I want to see Michael.  I want to stay here with you and help.”  And with that, a new burst of tears had started up.  Devon had urged her to go, had pleaded with her to go, but she had (bravely? honorably? self-sacrificingly?) insisted on staying with him at Knight to assist him and support him as they plotted to rid themselves of Garth and return Michael home safely.

But alone at night she didn’t feel nearly so brave or so self-sacrificing.  Once, a few nights before, she’d awakened in the middle of the night, after another disturbing dream, to hear someone quietly trying to open her door.  But she had been sure to lock it earlier, and after fifteen seconds or so, the disturbance ended.  It hadn't been Devon, she was sure of that.  Garth hadn't tried again since.

But now she heard the doorknob rattling and the sound of the lock being picked, and her ribs clamped her heart, and she sat up in bed and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, _what did he want?_ but of course that was a stupid question.  _Don’t lose your cool_ , her brain demanded, _for god’s sake keep your head_ … but that only made more adrenalin flood her bloodstream.

Finally the lock gave way and the door opened.  She squinted against the moonlit form ap­proaching the bed.

He stood beside the bed, looking down at her face, tight-jean-clad legs pressing against the side of the mattress, chest bare.  In the garage, his clothing had hinted of a hard muscular body be­neath the material; now here in the moonlight she saw that was no lie, no doubt the man spent a great deal of time working his body, forcing it to mold to his desires; here, stripped to the waist, he looked bigger, taller; obviously neither she nor Devon was any match for this man if it ever came down to a physical confrontation.

For a long time he stood there; she heard his breathing deep and heavy.  He didn’t move, he didn’t touch her, he just stood there.  At least a minute passed, then abruptly he turned and walked out, and she saw something that made her gasp: there was scars on his back – whip scars.

She thought she might cry again.  … _how many more nights?... please, Devon please where are you?_... she hated to be alone with Garth even in the daytime, it made her skin crawl the way his eyes lingered on her whenever he saw her, she was sure he would try to force himself on her some­day, dear god what was she going to do?  It disconcerted her that he looked so much like Michael, the same long body, the same high-cheekboned face, the same pale eyes, except that Garth’s eyes were totally devoid of warmth and love.  He seemed to subsist on hatred, he radiated anger and cruelty… and black arousal and passion… _please god stop this maniac, please make him go away… please Devon, please Michael where are you now I need you now… please please please_ …  
* * * * *

Devon had decided this morning to eat breakfast at the staff cafeteria – somehow the Foun­dation house no longer felt like home.  From his table on the patio, Devon scanned the heads of the other Knight employees enjoying their breakfasts, his gaze seeking Bonnie’s long brown tresses.  But she was not among the fifty or so people gathered in small clumps around the café tables.  And he hadn't seen her at the Foundation house either.  Later he would knock on her door and check on her – he didn’t want to disturb her too soon, if she was still catching up on her rest.

Garth emerged from the cafeteria building carrying a tray of food, and walked over to Devon.  “So,” he greeted, appropriating the chair across the table, “you decided to join the common laborers for breakfast this morning.”

“I decided,” Devon retorted crisply, “that your face gives me indigestion.  Surely you could find another place to sit.”

“Don’t be so antisocial,” Garth nudged.  “From now on, you and I will be working very closely together – just like you and my father did.  Try to be a little more friendly.”

“You bastard.”

A calm eyebrow raised.  “That would certainly surprise my mother.”

“Where is Bonnie?  What have you done with her?”

“What makes you think I did anything with her?  She’s all right.  She’s probably still up in her room getting dressed or something.  Don’t worry – I haven’t forced myself on her, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Devon scowled at the younger man, trying to read through the casual pleasantries.  The man’s friendly good-looking face belied the monster behind the mask.

“Bonnie is _not_ all right!” he snapped.  “What did you do to her?”

“That’s none of your business, old man.  Whatever we did or did not do is our personal busi­ness.  I did not rape her.  That is all you need to know – and you don’t even need to know that.”

“Well, I’m surprised to hear you follow a gentleman’s code of honor,” the Englishman ripos­ted tartly.

Garth grinned.  He stirred the scrambled eggs on his plate.  A girl at a nearby table was watch­ing him curiously – perhaps he reminded her of someone? – and he smiled blandly at her.  To Devon he mentioned, “Have you accepted the Board’s decision yet?”

“I accept it, but I do not condone it!”

The younger man nodded his acknowledgement.

Abruptly Devon thrust up from his seat, angry hatred welling in his eyes.  “I pray that you are soon damned to hell where you belong!”

And without another word he marched out of the patio, leaving his half-eaten meal.

Garth watched him stride across the green to the garden sidewalk until the older man disap­peared around the corner of the cafeteria building.  Then his gaze drifted back to the girl trying to keep a surreptitious eye on him, while his mind drifted back to the Foundation house and another girl upstairs.  Sooner or later he’d go up to see her again some night… after all, they still had a lot to talk about…

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie. She amused him, she aroused him. Garth thought about her often, when he wasn’t hip-deep in Corporation business. She was certainly different from Adrianne. Adrianne used Michael’s similarity to taunt Garth; Bonnie was curious and slightly confused by the resemblance. She obviously hated him, but unlike Devon’s keen eight-year hatred, she didn’t fully understand the conflict.
> 
> He’d have the girl, goddamn he’d have the girl.

“Damn!” Garth Knight swore emphatically.  It was the first word he’d had reason to utter all afternoon.

He sat alone in the office amid scattered piles of charts and papers and ledger-books.  At last he’d found his father’s private journals, hidden of all places in a secret cabinet back in the recesses of the kitchen pantry.  It had taken five days of intensive searching to locate them.

Devon and Bonnie had disappeared for the day somewhere on the Knight grounds – where, Garth didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter: he could call up their location in an instant on the computer.  His first action as president had been to beef-up the security system on the pretense that Knight’s new R & D required great confidentiality.  The board had agreed enthusiastically, particularly Albrecht who appreciated Garth’s avant-garde ideas and didn’t want to risk another company getting wind of them.  Within the first week after his election, all the security personnel had been replaced with men of Garth’s choosing and their number doubled. Then Garth had delivered some original programs to the software department, programs to commute the computer surveillance to an omnipresent Cerberus, able to pinpoint the position of anybody on the grounds, or off via roving telemetry – ie, KITT.  Very few of the employees were aware of the total parameters of the new system – it might have unnerved them if they were.  Well, George Orwell had promised this was the year for it.

Now if he could just make some damn sense of his father’s notes.  Some of the shorthand was nearly indecipherable, some of the paragraphs lacked transitions; but how much was deliberate secrecy and how much was simple senility, Garth wondered negligently.

The diaries spoke Wilton’s Knight’s most private thoughts; his prospects for the Corporation detailed for each subsidiary, which later he might or might not choose to reveal at the weekly board meeting; his plans in July of 1982 for a certain SCPD Officer Michael Long lying unconscious in a hospital bed with half his face shot away; and prior to that, his notes regarding his wife of thirty-three years, Elizabeth, and their only child, Garth.  Here the ideas were most vague and scattered – had he experienced great difficulty in expressing his feelings regarding his dearly beloved wife and son, or had he foreseen to the day when that son would casually violate the father’s privacy and read the most intimate wanderings of the father’s mind?

Not even Devon had known where Wilton had hidden the journals; and Garth was certain Devon was telling the truth because Garth had punctuated his request with a fist to the gut; and still, between gasps, the old man had reiterated his ignorance.

Right now Garth was perusing the diaries, searching for his father’s last program designs, his most recent plans for the computer system before his death, something which Garth might be able to expand upon.  So far, what he had found was very sparse and lacking in detail.

“Damn!” he muttered again.

Bonnie.  She amused him, she aroused him.  He thought about her often, when he wasn’t hip-deep in Corporation business.  She was certainly different from Adrianne.  Adrianne used Michael’s similarity to taunt Garth; Bonnie was curious and slightly confused by the resemblance.  She obviously hated him, but unlike Devon’s keen eight-year hatred, she didn’t fully understand the conflict.

A smiled teased Garth’s lips at the thought.  For reasons of his own, Devon was abetting Garth by self-imposed silence; why, Garth didn’t know, except that Devon seemed to prefer bearing problems on his own shoulders.  But as long as it assisted Garth, he certainly wouldn’t be the one to breach Devon’s confidentiality.

He’d have the girl, goddamn he’d have the girl.  Maybe tonight… damn, even the thought made his prick swell.  He didn’t want to simply force her into submission, though; if it were just a matter of relieving the throb in his crotch, he could easily hold her down and rape her… but that wasn’t the point.  He wanted her to surrender herself to him…  surrender herself, even as she despised him – now, _that_ thought was so sweet he could eagerly taste it.

Maybe he’d go to her room tonight… and if Devon tried to interfere, Garth would then take him to the floor and beat hell out of the old man.

The drilling buzz of the phone on the corner of the desk sharply interrupted his meditation.  He pushed his way through the piles of paperwork to answer it.

“Yes?” he grumbled.

“Knight, come down to my office for dinner – I’ve got some figures that’ll interest you.”  It was Industries’ chairman, Dan Albrecht.

“What have you got?”

“The engineers have manipulated your drawings into the blueprints for the 3000.  I think your ideas will really work.”

“Of course they will.”

“Be here, oh, about six-thirty… I’ve, uh, got some other items to discuss with you too.”

“What?”

“We’ll talk when you get here.”

“All right.”  
* * * * *

Wilton had fought as hard as he could to lock Garth out of the family heritage and the family business, to disown the seed of his own loins.  But finally, in the denouement, the Corporation lay virginal and open in Garth’s hands; and the only piece of Knight remaining under Wilton’s influence was a simple rectangle seven by three by two in the family crypt.  Garth would be kind enough to allow him that.  Perhaps he would even be so kind as to disinter his mother and bring her back to Knight as well, so that Wilton could lie beside his beloved Elizabeth for all eternity.  One big happy family.

Wilton dead could no longer cast Garth out like a piece of carrion.  Garth lived to manipulate Knight Corporation to his own desires, while the great beneficent Wilton Knight, Esq., rotted in death.  Only once in the past year had Garth truly wished his father was still alive and breathing… so he could have spat in the old man’s face.  
* * * * *

“Who are you, Knight?”  A tiny smile punctuated Dan Albrecht’s question.  He watched Garth from across the desk

Garth speared his fork into the jello salad ensconced between the baked potato and the lobster tails on his dinner plate.  He ignored Albrecht’s expression. “I thought you already knew all about me, Mr. Albrecht.  After all, Mr. Grant did say the Board carried out an extensive investigation of my background.”

“We did.  You’ve got a criminal record:  two cases of aggravated assault, one assault with a deadly weapon.  Felony charges.”

“No felony convictions.”

“No.  I understand they were reduced to misdemeanors, brandishing a weapon in a threatening manner, something like that.  Probation, no jail time.”

“So?”  Garth turned a disinterested gaze toward his interrogator.  “Is there anything in the Knight by-laws that prevents misdemeanants from standing as CEO?”

“No.  But it makes me more curious what we don’t know about you.  For instance, the most curious of all is that many official records don’t even exist for you.  It’s as though a great deal of your existence has been wiped.”

Garth showed no curiosity at all.  “You said you had the blueprints for the 3000, Mr Albrecht.  Where are they?”

Albrecht slid a manila folder across the desk.  “I think you’ll like them.  My engineers made a few changes in the input parameters you supplied…”

“The jackasses,” Garth interjected his breath.

“Why don’t you read their suggestions first before judging them, Knight?” Albrecht commented casually.  “It’s possible that my people are slightly more familiar with the 3000 than you are, since you only arrived here less than three weeks ago.”

“Mr. Albrecht, believe me, I am as intimately acquainted with your department’s technological research as you are.”

“Yes, Devon did say he’s been keeping you informed all along,” Albrecht acknowledged, “… funny, he never mentioned you, though, at any of the board meetings.  By the way, how is Devon?  He begged out of last week’s meeting on account of, uh, illness, and he’s been keeping out of sight since then.”

Garth answered blandly.  “You know Devon has been ailing for several weeks.”

“An ailment which appeared rather suddenly – and coincidentally with your unannounced arrival.”

Garth scanned the man’s eyes for any sign of mockery or belligerence.  “Mr. Albrecht, are you trying to suggest something?”

“No… just noting an observation.”  Albrecht slouched back in his huge comfortable chair.

“Devon is suffering from exhaustion – I don’t find that surprising at all.  The man’s been working without rest for years.  He’s getting old.  Between overseeing the board and running the Foundation and absorbing all of my late father’s duties, it’s no wonder that the stress finally overcame him.  Rather than suspicious, I consider it quite fortunate that I returned when I did to relieve him of the burden, allowing Devon to recuperated in peace and seclusion.  But I will relay your condolences.”

“Thanks.  I think I’ll call on him later.”  With a napkin Albrecht wiped his lips.  “Listen, Knight, after you’ve had a chance to study those blueprints, I want to schedule a discussion with my head engineers.  They have some questions for you – particularly about some of your equations for the interface software – and they have some changes they’d like to suggest.”

“They can suggest – that doesn’t mean the changes will be accepted.”

Albrecht just watched Garth with a non-threatening noncommittal smile.  “Mr. Knight, do you have a problem dealing with committees?”

Garth ignored the pointed question.  Instead he changed the subject:  “Mr. Albrecht, how would you like to come up to my place in Lone Pine for a few days?  I think you might like to see some of the research I’ve been working on, and maybe you can study my computer system to understand more fully what I’m trying to accomplish with the Knight 3000.”

“Fine,” Albrecht agreed.  “And maybe while I’m there, we will learn to understand each other more fully.”  
* * * * *

Grudgingly, against his will, Devon entered the room where Garth waited, the room that had once been his study, but now bore the stigma of Garth’s domain.  Some of the valuable art pieces which had decorated the formal well-appointed library were gone now, deliberately destroyed in a negligent jab of revenge against Wilton Knight – old paintings and statuary which had meant a great deal to Knight elder when the father had occupied this study years before.

Now the Knight scion sat behind the large dark mahogany desk, slouched back in the brown leather overstuffed chair, feet up on the highly-sheened desk-top, boot-heels casually scratching the fine finish.  Wilton had always taken especially good care of that piece of furniture, and Devon had continued in his stead.

– what the hell did that matter now? a damn piece of furniture – Garth was guilty of far greater crimes than that.  He had harassed and troubled his own father, he had tortured Michael within an inch of his life, now he tormented Devon mercilessly.  The thought made Devon seethe.  He could not imagine a man he hated more right now than this young tyrant slouched before him.

“What did you call me for?” the Englishman snapped brusquely.  “What do you want now, Garth?”

“I want you to go over the bids we’ve collected on the 3000.”  Garth pushed a large envelope toward the older man.  “Megatek is offering $15,300,000 paid in monthly installments over the next two years.  Teledyne says they’ll pay $11,500,00 in one lump sum.  I want you to prepare a comparative report of all sixteen offers so I can relay it to the rest of the board tomorrow morning.  Then Thursday I’ll call the company attorney…”

“Go to hell.”

“I also want a little more respect out of you, Devon.”  Garth’s voice remained casual, neutral.  Negligently he fingered the envelope which Devon ignored.  He ignored Devon’s disinterest.  “I want you to acknowledge me as your – ”

– _master? owner?_ the Englishman heard beneath Garth’s words –

“ – employer…” – a smile teased Garth’s lips as his gaze remained fixed on the envelope and not on Devon – “… I want you on your knees, old man…”

Devon’s angry gaze riveted Garth’s bland face.  “The only way you’ll get me on my knees is to whip me to my knees!”

“Don’t underestimate me, Devon.”

“I don’t.  You have already proven yourself capable of monstrous villainies.  I’m sure whipping me would disturb you very little.”

“Don’t sound so eager for it.”  Amusement broadened the bearded smile.

“Your egotism is exorbitant!”  Anger creased Devon’s brow.  “I’m sure had your father been able to truly foresee all this calamity you have caused, he would have had you taken out years ago as a pup and drowned in the nearest river.  You make a grotesque mockery of your father’s principles and ethics.”

That provoked a genuine laugh from Garth’s lips.  “Oho, so now we’re talking murder!  Tell me the truth, Devon, haven’t you considered it yourself recently? Attacking me while I sleep perhaps?”

“How _do_ you sleep, Garth?  For all the lives you’ve ruined, you must have dozens of enemies, any one of whom would delight in slitting your throat one evening.”

Garth was unimpressed.  “So far, none of them have succeeded, have they?  And no, I don’t consider you a threat either, Mr. Miles; however, if I feel it becomes necessary, I will simply remove you to my estate, lock you in a basement cell… and perhaps even whip you – if it amuses me.”

Devon’s face blanched in horror and rage.  Tightly he muttered, “We have nothing more to discuss,” then turned to walk away.

“Devon,” Garth interrupted, “don’t leave yet.  I have some good news for you.”

Devon looked back, eyes narrowed.  “What good news could you possibly have?”

“Michael will be coming home next week.”

“Home?  Here to the Foundation?”

“No… to my estate.  You should be smiling, Devon, I thought it would make you happy to know that Michael was finally well enough to leave the hospital.”

“You wouldn’t do anything primarily for my happiness nor for Michael’s health.  I assume your real reason is to have Michael back where you can continue to torment and abuse him.  I wish to god there was some way to stop you!”

Garth grinned.  “Then do as I tell you.  Be my executive officer.  Give me the bid report I requested, make me a list of all of the Foundation’s open cases, and serve me in any other way that I choose.”

“I will not assist you!”

“You were my father’s assistant.  I see no reason you shouldn’t continue as mine.”

“Your father never threatened to have me whipped!  You pretend that a normal business partnership exists between us.  You’re completely mad!  I refuse to continue this parody of a relationship!”

“Not even for Michael’s sake?”  Garth enjoyed the effect his words had on Devon.  “I don’t pretend anything, old man.  If you want me to call it extortion, I will.  To secure your silence and your loyalty to me, I will allow Michael to recuperate without interference.  Will you bargain?”

“I’ve already given you my answer.  If you want a secretary, hire one for yourself.  You buy everyone else.”

Rising from his chair, Garth strolled around the desk and leaned on it in front of Devon.  “No one else has your knowledge of Knight,” he admitted.

“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?” the older man snapped.  “I don’t like being threatened, and I do not bargain with gutter terrorists.  Since you wanted the corporation so badly, very well, it’s yours now.  You spend the next twenty years learning what it’s taken me twenty years to learn about Knight.  I will not make it quicker for you.”

“Well,” Garth acknowledged, “I did think Michael meant more to you than that.”

Devon stiffened.  “You’re counting heavily that my relationship with Michael is deeper than a mere business acquaintance.”

“Business acquaintance!” Garth snorted disbelief.  “How about more like fatherly adoration?  Am I really that mistaken, old man?  When you acquired my father’s station, you also absorbed his deep paternal sensibilities to Michael Long… or perhaps you love him because he’s the closest thing to a son an old capon like you will ever have.”

Devon trembled in unspeakable fury.  “I will not bargain with you at all!” the Englishman pronounced crisply.  “Do what you will.”  Again he turned and strode out of the room.

Garth watched after him.  Devon would return later, he would obey like the servant that he was, he would modify his proud attitude… or Garth _would_ whip it out of him.  The thought amused Garth.  He wanted to take a horsewhip to that senile old man.  Because of Wilton Knight’s untimely demise, Devon would now absorb Garth’s revenge for both himself and for Wilton.  Garth wanted to heard Devon scream, like he himself had screamed countless time in that stinking African prison cell, when the guards had beaten him and whipped him and raped him and whipped him some more until he had thought he would die.  The nightmares still tormented him even yet, two years later; now he wanted Devon to share in those nightmares.  Devon _would_ share those horrors… Garth would see to that.  
  
* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


End file.
